The Raven's Nest
by The-Doctors-Song
Summary: When a string of events occur, with nothing but a black, raven's feather as the lead, Sherlock may just find that this will be his hardest, and possibly last, case yet. But isn't that what makes it fun? Rating may change in the future... No Slash...


**A/N: Well... I'm a little nervous about this. It's my first Sherlock fic . I've only recently gotten in to the amazing show. :D But i love it all the same. This idea's been playing in my head sine about the second episode of Season 1. I was committed to watching both seasons before i started. So, now that i have... TADA! Here ya go. **

**I would just like to say. Sherlock is a little different, probably because this isn't his average case. He's baffled. For once, or for a rare time, he's confused, and doesn't know what the hell has happened. Please, if he does seem a bit OOC, i'm sorry. But it's necessary for the story.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. It belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Steven Moffat and Mark Gatis, and what not. I don't know who it belongs to. Whatever.**

**Hope it's okay. Hope you like it. Enjoy**

**Chapter One**

He should have expected it really. With the amount of time Sherlock had left the house, only to return hours later covered in blood, offering no other explanation other than he was bored, was countless. The last had resulted in a visit from a man named Henry, claiming a gigantic hound resided in the woods surrounding his home. John should have expected this.

"Where have you been this time?" He asked, looking up from his laptop as Sherlock strolled through the door.

Upon further examination, John noticed the prominent bulge in the pocket of Sherlock's coat. Narrowing his eyes and frowning, he looked up at the man, afraid to ask and yet finding himself doing so anyway.

"What's in your pocket?"

Sherlock stared at him, if only for a moment, before reaching in and pulling out…

"A hand? You have a severed hand in your coat pocket!"

Sherlock crinkled his nose as he glared at the appendage, sighing.

"I had been hoping for a more stimulating case. This was much too transparent. Too… Easy."

He tossed the hand over his shoulder. John watched as it hit the top step, only to bounce down each one. He heard a frail shriek from the bottom of the stairs. Sighing, he deduced Mrs Hudson had returned from her groceries. Turning his head, he glared at Sherlock as he threw himself down on to the couch, his hands rubbing circles on his temples.

"How? How can there possibly be nothing of importance or even remotely entertaining? Surely, psychopaths don't take holidays. This is becoming boring. Too boring. I need… Something. But what?"

Rolling his eyes, John refused to answer, instead turning back to his laptop and beginning to type again. They were silent for only minutes before Sherlock jumped to his feet, grabbed his coat and walked out. John stared after, watching as Sherlock descended the stairs without so much as a look in John's direction.

"No Sherlock. I don't want to go with you. Not at all. I'd much rather stay here and update my blog." He said, only somewhat sarcastically. Sherlock's response was a slamming of the front door.

~.~

As Sherlock walked down the main street of London, his eyes whipped back and forth, assessing each passer-by.

"Married… Married… Married with three kids… Divorced… Cheating… Twice… Being cheated on…" He muttered, ignoring the looks he was receiving. "Oh, why can't something interesting happen?" He shouted, raising his head to the sky as if it was supposed to cure his boredom.

His head snapped down to stare straight ahead, as the echo of an explosion reached his ears. Men and women surrounding him stopped, turning rapidly to gawk at the beginning of a mushroom cloud, only just visible in the quickly darkening sky. A grin slowly crept on to Sherlock's face. Glancing casually at the sky, he raised his eyebrow, before taking off at a run.

Interrupting traffic, while exhilarating and his fastest way of getting on the scene, was admittedly quite dangerous. Four times already he'd had to roll over the bonnet of a car. All of them honking loudly as if they expected the sound to have affected Sherlock in some way. He scoffed as he ran, unable to understand the simplicity of their minds.

He slowed, pulling his coat up and putting his hands in his pockets. Turning the corner, he appeared on the scene where multiple bodies were strewn across the street, yellow tape marked a fair distance away from the site, and a charred, still smoking apartment complex which was being hosed down by the fire department. He stood, staring at the scene with cold, calculating eyes. They whipped back and forth, zeroing in on details everyone else missed, or ignored due to their own belief that it was unimportant. But he knew better. He was better.

A girl, no older than seventeen, lying on the asphalt with nothing but a plastic sheet covering her body from the outside world. Three possibilities. One, she was in the shower at the time of the explosion. Ruled out. She would have been wet, and would have had several more pieces of porcelain rubble in her immediate surroundings. Two, she was involved in illicit activities with another male, or possibly female. Ruled out. There would be another body nearer to her own. This was not the case. Three… The body was placed there. This is the most likely of scenarios. The body is rather clean for a bomb victim, and in regards to blood… It seems she has none. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock ran them up the body of the girl. Blonde, skinny, seventeen, swimmer, bites her nails, suggests it's a habit when stressed, one she tried to break. She was a straight A student up until a few weeks prior to death, when they began to fall.

He recognised this girl.

She was supposed to be lying in the morgue.

Glancing around the area of bodies, his mind conjured up several scenarios for most, until he reached the man near the entrance of the building.

Late forties, smoker, tried to quit, didn't. Alcoholic, heavy alcoholic, reported for domestic abuse several times by neighbours. Worked as an oil rigger, by the state of his fingertips. Was having an affair, the ring on his left hand having been removed regularly. Died by what was stupidly suspected as a lightning strike. Actual cause of death… The man's child electrocuted him while hiding in the basement… Leaky pipes.

He was supposed to be in the morgue as well.

Stepping forward, Sherlock ducked under the yellow restricted access tape, ignoring the shouts from the controlling police. Walking straight past an exasperated Lestrade. He held up his hand, waving off the control officers before falling in to step with Sherlock.

"There's nothing for you here Holmes. Faulty gas line."

Sherlock merely raised his eyebrow, shaking his head with a sigh.

"Wrong."

He walked straight up the steps, strolling in to the still smoking building. Lestrade handed him a mask, to help him breathe. Barely even acknowledging him, Sherlock waved him off. Eyes narrowing as he came across yet another victim.

A child. Six, almost seven in just a few weeks. Boy, asthmatic, plays football. Drew… A lot. Prefers his mother over his father, has a security blanket… A stuffed animal of some kind. The faux fur seen just under the tips of his finger nails. Initial verdict… Asthma attack in the middle of the night. Sherlock's deduction… The boy was deliberately suffocated.

He'd only appeared in the morgue last week.

His eyes scanned the blackened room, some parts still on fire. They narrowed in on a mark on the wall. A blackness to it that didn't match the initial charring. He stood, his head right up against the wall as he looked over the mark. Sniffing at it, he frowned. Using the tip of his gloved finger, he scratched at the mark, pulling it from the wall. It was sticky, a hardened liquid that must have happened before the explosion. Some kind of tar like substance…

Looking up the stairs, he followed the mark as it ascended, never wavering its straight line. He came across another group of bodies, these ones of no significance to him. Reaching the third floor, with Lestrade shadowing him, he pushed open the door the line ended at. Somehow, unknown to Sherlock, the room had remained in perfect condition. Not a single charred mark, not a single piece of rubble. It was as if the explosion affected the whole building, except for this one.

The room was bare, all except for a single body lying perfectly straight in the middle of the room. Quickly assessing it, Sherlock frowned, for once completely stumped. The body had definitely been a tenant of this building. Dead only by a few hours by the look of rigor. No blood, no marks… Just a dead body. The jaw seemed to be shut tightly, sparking the curiosity in Sherlock. Carefully, he pulled the man's jaw open, narrowing at what he found inside.

A single, black feather.

That was all.

Staring at the feather, he attempted to gain any information he could from the ordinary object. The only thing he could discern was that it was from a raven. And that, was all. Staring back down at the body, Sherlock quickly ran his eyes up and down him, before they widened comically.

"No. No, no, no, no, no! How did I not see that before?"

He stood immediately, ignoring Lestrade's shouts as he raced down the stairs, stopping at every victim, even when outside. Many of those standing outside watched as the consulting detective kneeled at every victim, even the ones he'd recognised before. They watched, some in confusion, some in horror, some in disgust, and only one in amusement, as Sherlock pulled open their jaws, only to find a single black raven's feather.

He stood, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle slightly. He was being watched. By more than just those idiots called the police and the people sticking their greedy, gossip hunting noses in to other's business'. Turning, he looked out in to the crowd, attempting to find someone, anyone, who caused that feeling in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. No one… Not a single person. Spinning, their faces blurred as he tried, but he couldn't find anyone. Clutching the black feather in his hand, he cursed.

This was going to be a hard case. But oh how fun it would be.

**A/N: I hope that left you wondering. If not, oh well. This should prove to be fun to write. Hope you liked it. Reviews would be awesome. I'm extremely tired right now :L Just, thought you ought to know ;D ... Bye...**


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